Sunday, December 29, 2013

The Dog Ate The Log

You've all met my male staff's mad sister and her long suffering husband haven't you? She's the one that got a little tipsy on a plane and scared the living bush chocolate out of the total stranger sitting next to her by doing her world famous pig impression. She was sitting in the middle seat between her long suffering husband and the unfortunate stranger. It was one of those low cost airlines who charge you each time you visit the toilet and sell you cheap Serbian chardonnay in white plastic cups. After fourteen or fifteen cups of this delicious nectar she thought she'd surprise her long suffering husband who was trying to sleep by punching two holes in the bottom of the cup with a pen and then clamping it between her teeth so that the cup covered her nose and looked very much like a pig snout. She then turned to her right and snorted loudly three times in her long suffering husband's ear. Trouble is, in her befuddled state she'd turned the wrong way, startling the poor man sitting in the aisle seat who was just dozing off. Imagine, sitting there, drifting pleasantly into a dream about what you'd do on your holiday, when you are woken by a blond woman wearing a pig snout snorting at you from six inches away. Not unnaturally the stranger tried to escape by standing up. Being a good airline passenger though, his seat belt was fastened and he found himself strapped in next to the mutant pig woman. However, there was just enough movement in his legs to allow him to tip his diet Coke with ice from his seatback tray into his lap. At least this woke him up properly just in time to see mad sister realise her mistake, turn to her left and do the same to her long suffering husband, who, being used to such behaviour simply ignored her and pretended to be asleep.

Anyway, all that is by the by. On Christmas Eve mad sister, long suffering husband and a few other family members did the traditional thing and went out for a curry. Earlier that day mad sister had made the mother of all yule logs containing about four bars of plain chocolate and a bucketful of cocoa powder. This she decorated with holly leaves, berries and a dusting of icing sugar. It looked wonderful. Then just before they headed out to the Indian restaurant she put it on the table in the lounge and closed all the doors so that her two dogs couldn't get at it. You may know that chocolate is poisonous to dogs and coming home from the restaurant to find no yule log and two dead dogs under the Christmas tree may well have taken some of the gloss off the seasonal festivities.

So, yule log safely locked away off they went to enjoy their vindaloo and chips. Later, at the restaurant mad sister's daughter and her husband decided to leave before the others because their baby girl was becoming restless and probably wanted a feed and a change of nappy. Or it could just have been that they were embarrassed by mad sister's animal impressions. Either way, they said they'd go back to mad sister's house, do whatever was necessary and wait for the others to return home. An hour later, mad sister and long suffering husband came in to find mad sister's daughter and her husband on the sofa quietly watch the television, while their baby daughter slept between them. Mad sister then noticed that that the door to the lounge was open. With a deep sense of foreboding she entered the room. Mad sister's daughter had gone in there and left the door ajar. There was no yule log on the table, but the wooden chopping board upon which it had sat was there with a few crumbs and a smear of chocolate icing on it.  Laying on the rug were two sheepish looking lurchers, their long tailing beating a guilty tattoo on the floor while their eyes were saying "Yule log? What yule log."

Grabbing a mutt each by the collar mad sister and long suffering husband dragged the dogs into the back garden and shoved a hand into the animals' mouths in an attempt to make them throw up the chocolate log. Twenty minutes of this had produced nothing except teeth marks on the humans' hands.
 "Do dogs even have a gag reflex?" Mad sister asked long suffering husband.
 "How should I know?" He replied.
 "Maybe we should get them to a vet." suggested mad sister.
 "At eleven at night on Christmas Eve?"
 "Keep trying. Try to get your fingers in a bit further."
 "If I put my fingers in any further they'll come out of his bum" said long suffering husband loudly and irritably just as their next door neighbour who was putting the cat out peered over the fence.
 "Yule log." said long suffering husband by way of explanation and the neighbour nodded and went back inside, presumably to discuss with his wife whether or not he should call the police or the RSPCA.

Eventually they gave up and let the dogs sleep in their room that night in case there was an emergency. There wasn't. Both dogs survived the ordeal and one of them produced his own chocolate log on Boxing Day, complete with a sprig of holly and three shiny red berries.

Well, that about wraps up 2013 - the year the World lost Nelson Mandela - Madiba. We also lost Peter O'Toole, Mikhail Kalashnikov, Ronnie Biggs, Joan Fontaine, David Coleman, Lou Reed, Ken Norton, Margaret Thatcher, Hugo Chavez, Tom Clancy, David Frost and my pal Badger.

If you're not British there's a fair chance that you will not have heard of David Coleman. He worked for many years as a sports commentator with the BBC. He was utterly brilliant and could be relied upon to put his foot in his mouth on a regular basis with hilarious results. Here are some of his best moments.

"That's the fastest time ever run - but it's not as fast as the world record."

"Don't tell those coming in the final result of that fantastic match, but let's just have another look at Italy's winning goal."

"He's 31 this year - last year he was 30."

"He just can't believe what's not happening to him."

"In a moment we hope to see the pole vault over the satellite."

"He is accelerating all the time. The last lap was run in 64 seconds and the one before that in 62."

"For those of you watching who do not have television sets, live commentary is on Radio 2."

"The late start is due to the time."

"It's gold or nothing...and it's nothing. He comes away with the silver medal."

"There is Brendan Foster, by himself with 20,000 people."

"Forest have now lost six matches without winning."

"He's even smaller in real life than he is on the track."

"The front wheel crosses the finish line, closely followed by the back wheel."

"And here's Moses Kiptanui - the 19-year-old Kenyan who turned 20 a few weeks ago."

"This could be a repeat of what will happen in the European games next week."

"That's the fastest time ever run, but it's not as fast as the world record."

 "If that had gone in, it would have been a goal."

 "This evening is a very different evening from the morning we had this morning."

"He's seven seconds ahead and that's a good question."

 "I think there is no doubt, she'll probably qualify for the final."

 "I have the feeling she (Manuela Machado) is an athlete who likes to get away from the opposition."

 "Nobody has ever won the title twice before. He (Roger Black) has already done that."

"He's got his hands on his knees and holds his head in despair."

"Both of the Villa scorers - Withe and Mortimer - were born in Liverpool as was the Villa manager Ron Saunders who was born in Birkenhead."

"He is accelerating all the time. The last lap was run in 64 seconds and the one before in 62."

Boris' Bit
Zis jahr has been wunderbar. As you can see mein Englische is zo much better zan ven ich started. Now, ich vould just like to be offerink mein deepest sympathy to everyvun who lost ein lieben, human or animal in 2013. Der soughts of Herr Billy's staff, Herr Billy himself, Herr Baci und ich are viz you.


Sunday, December 22, 2013

Sandra Claws

Why on earth did Mary and Joseph decide to have their baby at Christmas time? I mean, no wonder there was no room at the inn for them, it would have been fully booked for the holidays. I have little sympathy with people who travel at the last minute at peak times and then complain that they can't get the accommodation they want and that what they can get costs an arm and a leg. I guess this lack of sympathy comes from having to listen to the strident whinging of my male staff, who as a reverse people smuggler (or travel agent as he prefers to call himself) has to deal with people who try to do this all the time. A week before Christmas people will ask.
 "Are there any cheap deals going for Christmas?" My male staff will sigh and barely resist saying.   
 "Not this Christmas you daft bugger, but if you book now for Christmas 2014 you might get something that's only 50% dearer than the off season." He doesn't say this of course because he needs the money to buy my vegetables and if he insulted every client who warranted a good insult he'd soon have no clients at all.

No wonder the three wise men had to travel by camel. All the flights to Bethlehem would have been fully booked. I bet they were cursing Mary and Joseph for not giving them more notice. Actually a drawing of the nativity that my male staff did for Sunday School when he was about five years old had the three wise men arriving by helicopter and what the vicar thought was the angel Gabriel turned out to be a Messerschmitt 109 intent on shooting down the helicopter, while what he thought were clouds were actually exploding flak shells fired by anti-aircraft gun posts that the vicar foolishly mistook for shepherds with crooks pointing at the sky. Anyway, why shouldn't there have been a helicopter at the birth of Christ? After all, it's no less likely than a virgin birth, though I doubt that as a five year old my male staff would have pointed that out to the vicar. Shame really because I'd love to have known the vicar's answer to that one.

Of course, we animals have our own Christmas traditions which humans are totally ignorant of. We all believe in Sandra Claws. Sandra is a three metre tall polar bear who on Christmas eve circumnavigates Earth in a huge barge filled with thousands of tons of Arctic ice pulled labouriously through the oceans by one hundred of humanity's worst animal abusers. Sandra visits all the world's suffering animals and grants them a wish. If the animal is inside a house she doesn't bother about going down the chimney (No polar bear wants sooty fur.) She just breaks the door down, hauls the animal abuser out of bed and dangles him in front of their abused animal before granting their wish. This is why many animal abusers either have no testostricles or walk with a strange, pained, limping gait caused by having a large, angry polar bear shove a bedside lamp up their bottom passage - often one without an environment friendly bulb.

So, there you have it. This is my third Christmas and so far I have not received a visit from Sandra Claws. I have received Christmas treats every year so far though, and I don't suppose this year will be any different. It will be the first Christmas I've spent without my pal Badger which is rather sad, but I do have Boris and Baci to keep me company. My female staff's mum has flown off to Sydney to spend time with frantic sister, so this year it'll just be us piggies and my staff. Little Baci is very excited. It's his first Christmas and he's had trouble deciding whether to be naughty or nice. Naughty is so much more fun, but nice might get him an extra slice of cucumber. It's a tough decision for a young cavy.

Boris' Bit
Bitte everyvun, you must all be havink ein glücklich, safe and peaceful Christmas. Do not be trinkink as much as Herr Billy's staff are likely to, and don't schnog anyvun you should nicht be schnogging in der broom cupboard at der office party. You should be doink zat beind der wasser cooler.

Billy here again. Now I'd like to leave you with a lovely Christmas tale written by my good friend Katy Page.
Thanks Katy.

Billy's Christmas Party.

It was nearly Christmas and Billy was sitting in his cage. Somewhere in the house he could hear his staff getting ready for bed which meant only one thing; it was nearly time for the Christmas party. Soon the house was quiet and Billy wheeked softly to Paolo the budgie who unlatched his cage with his beak and flew down to let Billy out.

While Billy waddled off to the kitchen to get the snacks ready Paolo also freed Billy's friends Boris and Baci from their cage. Boris hurried over to the secret door to the outside which most guinea pigs have in the houses of the humans they live with. He opened the door and all their friends came in. Billy brought out the snack he's been working on (and nibbling at if the truth be known). There were fresh basil tarts, celery sticks, carrots cut into the shape of Christmas trees and lots of other vegetable based snacks, including Billy's speciality - Green Bean Surprise. The surprise being that Billy had eaten all the green beans.

Soon Billy was greeting his friends. They had come from as close as the garden like Patricia the possum and Peanut and Pecan the guinea fowls, to as far away as America and Europe. He'd just finished greeting his local pals when he spotted his international friends arriving. There was Lola, Blossom, Mable and Clara from England and Puppy, Reginald, Gabrielle and Dobbie-Jones from America.

Before long the party was in full swing and everyone was having a great time. Billy was wearing some plastic mistletoe on a headband which was a gift from Puppy the guinea pig. He'd already managed to catch most of the girls, but was still trying to find Lola who was playing hard to get. Blossom had brought Billy some roller skates so he was zipping around quickly with the help of Baci who was towing him. Once Billy had found Lola and received his kiss it was time for the party games. The first game was musical cushions. It got quite heated towards the end, but Baci won because he moved like greased lightning. Next came charades. Everyone had lots of fun with that, although Boris found it quite difficult as English was his second language and nobody could understand his German accent. Then there was pass the parcel. There were lots of lovely prizes and the middle one was a very tasty treat, though quite frankly all the animals had just as much fun chewing on the wrapping paper.  Anyway, everyone won something and Boris got the treat in the middle.

After the games everyone pulled crackers and put on silly hats. Billy then handed out the little gifts he had bought everyone. For the girls there were little necklaces with tiny snowflake pendants and the boys all received animal sized silver engraved pens with instructions never to let their humans catch them using them.

By the time the presents had been distributed it was rather late and everyone was getting tired. Baci was already curled up asleep in the corner on a pile of cushions and Blossom was dozing nearby. Soon everyone started to leave. They all thanked Billy for a wonderful party and left little thank you gifts. Once all the guests had departed Billy and Boris gentle lifted baby Baci and put him to bed. Billy had just began tidying up when his eyelids started to feel rather heavy. He decided to have a quick nap and then tidy up later.

As Billy started to wake up he heard voices. At first he thought he was dreaming, but then he heard what was being said and realised that it was his staff. He must have slept a little longer than he expected to. His staff had discovered the party mess, and were both somewhat confused to find what seemed like tiny party supplies strewn across the living room floor. Billy smiled to himself and pretended to be asleep.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Qantas Zero Zero One

There has been a worrying development this week. My female staff's mum wants to be an airline pilot. It's worrying not just because she's eighty five, but because her memory is not what it was. It's been years since my staff have had the courage to be passengers in her car, so they have no idea what her driving is like, apart from the fact that she frequently forgets where she has parked and has to walk the streets for hours until she finds it. She doesn't really mind though, it's a good social outlet for her because she stops at every coffee shop she passes for a chat and a cuppa, and to ask if anyone there has seen a crookedly parked white Mercedes anywhere.

Then yesterday while she and my staff were slurping chardonnay on the deck I heard the subject turn to planes. My female staff's mum has always been fascinated by them and simply loves flying, so much so that my male staff offered to buy her a broomstick for Christmas. This earned him a savage glare from my female staff's mum and a bruised arm from my female staff. It was then that my female staff's mum dropped her bombshell.
 "I'd love to be an airline pilot." She said. Actually sixty years ago she would have made a fantastic pilot. She's certainly courageous, she quite happily gets into the car when my male staff is driving and doesn't even close her eyes. She may of course spend an hour praying fervently beforehand of course, but I have absolutely no evidence to support this. I must admit it made my fur stand on end when I heard her say this, and my mind was instantly filled with images of her in command of an Airbus A380 containing four hundred passengers approaching London Heathrow Airport.

Air Traffic Control comes on the radio.
 "Qantas zero zero one heavy. Please descend to flight level one three and maintain holding pattern awaiting further instructions."
 "Oh hello dear. Is that you Barry? How's your dad? Is his gout still giving him trouble? Can you say all that again dear. I forgot to bring my hearing aid. Left my glasses at home too. Honestly, I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on."
 "I repeat. Qantas zero zero one heavy. Please descend to flight level one three and maintain holding pattern awaiting further instructions."
  "Okay Barry dear. You sound busy. It must be nearly time for your tea break. Does your mum know that you're still smoking. You really should give it up, and you can't be getting much fresh air stuck inside that control tower of yours. It can't be could for you." Now, what was it you wanted me to do?"
Deep sigh.
 "Please descend to flight level one three and maintain holding pattern awaiting further instructions."
 "Sorry dear, you'll have to speak up. Did I tell you I forgot my hearing aid?"
Barry shouts  "Please descend to flight level one three and maintain holding pattern awaiting further instructions."
 "No need to shout Barry, I heard you. You're getting tetchy. Are you sure you're not working too hard? Okay, so you want me to descend to flight level three one, is that right? Wait a tick dear that can't be right. I'm already well below flight level three one. Are you sure you don't mean flight level one three? You really should concentrate dear. Anyway, I'll descend to flight level one three for you and maintain a knitting pattern. That's what you wanted wasn't it dear?
 "Whatever." Then there's the sound of a chair scraping on the floor, some muttering and a door slamming."

My female staff's mum turns to the First Officer. "Okay Roger dear, set the flappy things to fifteen degrees please."
 "Roger, flaps to fifteen."
 "That's right dear, that's what I said. Are you teasing me now you naughty boy? Call the tower for me please will you please Roger. Ask Barry which runway he wants us to land on. I think he's a bit cross with me at the moment for some reason. I must send him some of my date scones"

The First Officer gets on the radio and has a conversation with the tower.
 "Well, what did he say dear? I hope he's concentrating better now."
 "Barry wasn't there Captain. They said something about a terrible accident, apparently he fell off the tower. They're not sure how it happened. He's been rushed to hospital."
 "Oh, that's nice. I'll take him some flowers and grapes when we land, I'm sure he'll be pleased to see me. Now then, which runway did they want us to land on?"
"Runway zero nine left Captain."
 "Jolly good Roger. We're getting quite low now, better lower the erm......the erm......don't tell me, it'll come to me shortly. Oh look! A cow, and a man walking a dog. Tsk tsk! Oh look. He's let his dog poo on the pavement, how disgusting. Sorry, Roger, what were we doing? Ah! I remember...........the wheels, better get the wheels ready. What's the correct term? I always forget."
 "Lower the under carriage Captain."
 "That's right. Remind me which button it is will you. No, wait don't tell me, let me guess. Oh look that man nearly fell off his bike looking at us, he should watch where he's going he could cause a nasty accident. Oh Roger, we've landed now. Did you press the wheelie thing button for me while I was nattering? That's disappointing dear, that's my favourite bit. never mind probably just as well.

Boris' Bit
Ich haben never liked flyink. It's just not natürlich für eine guinea pig. If guinea pigs could be flyink everyvhere ve vould be nussink more zan bats.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Boobs, Shoes And Too Many Humans

Writing a fresh blog every week can be challenging for a rodent. There's only so much one can say about vegetables, herbs and poo before one starts repeating oneself. It's vital the we animal bloggers pull out all the stops to keep our human readers entertained week by week. We all know that humans have a very limited attention span and if there's nothing in the first  few lines to grab their attention their minds wander off, perhaps to shoe shops in the case of women, and more than likely boobs in the case of men. In fact I imagine that nobody at all is reading this now because it took me five lines to get onto the subject of shoes and boobs. If some smart human would only invent a pair of nice shoes to fit snugly and fashionably on ladies boobs I could concentrate the minds of 99% of humanity in one fell swoop. Meanwhile I sit here in front of a blank screen, pensively chewing on a piece of poo that I have just pulled from my own bottom passage with my teeth, wondering what I should write about this week.

Did you know that at the time of the birth of Jesus Christ (assuming such a man existed) it is thought that there were fewer than thirty million humans on this earth. Imagine how easy it would have been to find a car parking space. I believe that is about the population of Mexico City as it stands today. Now there are over seven billion of the buggers, and at this time of year it seems like they are all at our local post office whenever my male staff wants to buy a stamp.

Seven billion! How frightening is that? In 1958, the year my male staff was born there were less than three billion. That's just fifty five years ago, a mere blink of an eye in historical terms and as far as I know he hasn't personally added to that total, so don't blame him. How on earth can the world continue to supply all these people with food and water? It has long been thought that the next major war will be fought over water supplies - never mind oil. In another fifty five years the United Nations estimate that the World population will reach approximately ten billion. Imagine how far you'll have to walk from your parking spot to get your rationed daily cup of water then. At least you won't have to worry about going to the supermarket because there won't be any food. Climate change will have seen to that. Only the super rich will be able to afford to eat. Women's magazines will be full of photos of obese models dressed in the latest fashions, so that the average skeletal woman in the street will have something she can aspire to.

Did you notice anything interesting about that United Nations projected figure for the year 2068? Yes, that's right the rate of population increase will slow quite dramatically. Why? Drought? Famine? Loss of libido caused by the ever increasing consumption of anti-depressant medication? A decrease in the popularity of Catholicism? It doesn't really matter because by then the damage to the planet will be almost irreversible. There will be virtually no wildlife left because it will have been crowded out by the spread of the human population. The massive increase in cattle and sheep populations brought about by the need to feed so many people will have left many parts of the world dust bowls due to over grazing. The Sahara Desert will stretch from the Mediterranean Sea in the north to Zimbabwe in the south. The great forests of West and Central Africa will have gone the same way as the Amazon and the rain forests of South East Asia - levelled to make way for farmland and building materials.

Melting ice caps mean that many low lying Indian Ocean and Pacific Island nations no longer exist. Rising sea levels have inundated them causing their populations to flea in boats to become refugees, turned away from every nation they approach because there is not enough food, water or compassion to help even their own citizens. Australia is particularly badly effected by climate change. The southern half of the island continent below the Tropic of Capricorn is one enormous desert, while in the far north powerful cyclones whipped to a frenzy by warming ocean temperatures smash back to the stone age what remains of large coastal settlements like Darwin, Cairns and Townsville. The Great Barrier Reef had died by 2030 thanks to the warming ocean and poorly regulated use of fertilizer which is washed from the sugar cane plantations lining the Queensland coast into the Coral Sea by the huge rainfall delivered by the increasing cyclonic activity. Such run off feeds huge blooms of crown of thorns starfish which then eat every last square metre of live coral on the reef, while the silt washed down from the rivers kills the sea grass beds vital to fish, dugong and turtle breeding and feeding.

So called world leaders were warned about all this by scientists as early as the 1970's, but greed, corruption and short term gain got the better of certain politicians who dismissed the science as "Absolute Crap" in the case of Australia's own Prime Minister Tony Abbott. He and others either sat back and did nothing or actively made things worse through misguided policy choices.

If you think all that is bad enough, wait until you hear this. I had to go to the vet at the weekend to have a rock hard lump of my own poo removed from between my toes.

Boris' Bit

Heilige scheiße! Ich vish Herr Billy had not bozzered writing ein blog at all zis woche. Now ich bin sehr depressed und vil haf to haf some of Herr Billy's male staff's anti-depressants. Ich hope ich don't lose mein libido. Not zat ich habe any use for it at ze moment, but if der chance arises ich vant to be ready.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Flamingo Dancing

If you've been paying attention you will know that my female staff teaches belly dancing. Now she has taken up something called flamingo dancing too. She's not teaching that at the moment, just learning, but give her time. Before long she'll be out at Lake Nakuru teaching the flamingos to foxtrot or something. So anyway, on Saturday night my female staff's mum, my male staff, Boris, Baci and I were crammed cheek by furry butt into the Hyundai Getz for the ride to Palmwoods Memorial Hall where the flamingos were due to dance. The benevolence of Lady Luck never ceases to amaze me, and despite my male staff's best efforts to ram the Getz at one hundred and ten kilometres an hour into a variety of obstacles - trucks, petrol stations, cattle, police vehicles, we arrived at the venue in one piece, though Boris did have a slight bladder accident during one particularly close call, which involved a tree, a large Hereford bull and a fire engine.

So, while my female staff went backstage to change into her flamingo costume, the rest of us settled into our seats. I sat on my female staff's Mum's lap, contentedly depositing bush chocolate on her white skirt, while Boris and Baci sat with my male staff. Boris on his lap and Baci on his left shoulder. Being the smallest of us my male staff said that it was only fair that he had the best view and it had the added advantage of allowing him to wiggle his bum at the people sitting behind us. Then the house lights dimmed and Boris, thinking it was time for bed went to sleep. Not for long though because a moment later the music started. Now I'm not a great fan of music. My staff aren't allowed to use their sound system at all and I make my female staff close all the doors between the piano room and me. She is the only piano player outlawed by the Geneva convention. I've said it before - "If music be the food of love, I'm going on a diet."

My female staff, front and centre on the stage and not a single flamingo in sight.

This was something else though, someone was playing a guitar as though he had just consumed twelve tins of that awful caffeine drink stuff. What's it called? "Dead Bull" or something. It was deafening, and then a singer started wailing as though his testostricles were being assaulted by a pack of African wild dogs. Then the stage curtains parted to reveal, not a flock of flamingos as had been promised by my staff, but a whole herd of middle aged female humans dressed in what my male staff called traditional Spanish attire, with long flouncy skirts colourful tops and half a florist shop stuffed behind their ears. My female staff was up there too, swishing her skirt around and oh the horror, showing her knees! Naturally I was outraged and tried to reach up from my spot on my female staff's Mum's lap to cover young Baci's eyes. But he wasn't there. He'd disappeared from my male staff's shoulder.

It then became apparent that the stage was infested with bull ants or something equally bitey because all the ladies started leaping up and down and stamping their feet wildly and very loudly, while frantically waving their arms in great circles and clacking together what appeared to be half walnuts strapped to their fingers, so what with the manic guitarist, the yowling singer and the herd of middle aged ladies stamping their feet and clacking their nuts I was starting to regret attending this event. Then things started looking more promising. My male staff stood up and started howling like the singer. At first I thought he was just joining in to show his appreciation, but then I noticed a wriggling lump under the front of his shirt. It appeared that Baci had slid off my male staff's shoulder into his shirt to escape the din and all the stamping coming from the stage had frightened him so much that he had latched onto my male staff's right nipple with his razor sharp little teeth. Another reflex had loosened his bladder and the resulting deluge warmed my male staff's stomach, which was good, because he had been complaining that it was a little chilly in the hall.

Meanwhile, my male staff's agonised leap to his feet had catapulted Boris from his comfortable repose on his lap onto the top of the head of the gentleman sitting in front of us. He in turn then stood and glared at my male staff, who was still yelling while desperately trying to fish Baci out from the front of his shirt with one hand and mop up the hot pee with a grubby handkerchief with the other. For a moment I thought the man was going to say something unpleasant to my male staff, but when he saw the wet lump under my male staff's shirt he obviously thought he was about to witness an "Alien" moment and thought better of it. Before he turned to face the front again he plucked Boris from the top of his head and handed him back to my male staff, but not before my female staff's Mum had looked up at him and said to my male staff. "Ooooh look dear. It's Donald Trump." Then once Boris had been removed, "Oh sorry dear, my mistake." I wonder if we'll be invited to the next flamingo concert.

Boris' Bit
Ich don't sink zat der mann vas enjoyink havink me on top of his kopf, und ich sink zat he enjoyed havink to shake der poopies from his hair vunce he had handed me back to Herr Billy's male staff even less.

Sunday, November 24, 2013


I've said it before and I'll say it again.  It's just amazing how many great world leaders and historical figures have had guinea pig companions. A short time spent researching this matter will yield many examples. That's not to say that all humans with cavy companions are great or historical. Take my own staff for instance.  The only great thing about my male staff is his waistline, especially since two weeks ago he got so drunk that he fell over and bruised his knees so badly that he has been unable to have his daily run since. He claims, of course, that he tripped over a root while running in the woods, but nobody in their right mind would believe such an unlikely tale. And of course my female staff is more hysterical than historical.

Still, the fact remains, that many famous humans owe their fame and often their fortune to their guinea pigs, and yet these heroic cavies have been virtually wiped from the history books by human propaganda. Some of history's greatest human quotations were really about the orator's guinea pigs yet their words have been subsequently doctored to suit mankind's ego.

John F. Kennedy was more fond of his guinea pig than he was of Marilyn Monroe. In fact towards the end he actually thought he was a guinea pig. "Ich bin ein guinea pig" he told the people of Berlin. He also said. "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your guinea pig." Noble words indeed and yet they were edited by his advisers into something bland. Which versions of the above do you think would have had the greater impact. The original about looking after your guinea pig or the dull version?

England's Queen Elizabeth I recognised the ferocity and bravery of guinea pigs, when she addressed her troops at Tilbury in 1588 as the nation prepared to repel the Spanish Armada. "I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a guinea pig." She said and was greeted with wild cheers by the assembled rough and ready soldiers, for they too all had guinea pigs (many of them secreted in their codpieces) and knew how ferocious and courageous they are, especially when it comes to defending a slice of cucumber. Of course her Father Henry VIII had the stomach of several hundred guinea pigs, but that is neither here nor there.
Marie Antoinette was lynched by a crowd of outraged guinea pig owners when she dared to suggest that the impoverished cavy enthusiasts should feed their furry friends something that could give them bloat and make them very sick. "Let them eat cabbage." she had unwisely suggested. It was  the last thing she ever did.

In 1938 Neville Chamberlain visited Adolf Hitler to view his impressive guinea pig collection. The media of course leapt on this visit, claiming that it was an attempt to avert a looming war between Britain and Germany. It was no such thing of course. Herr Hitler had merely promised one of his favourite guinea pigs to Mr Chamberlain as a token of good will. Mr Chamberlain's reported "I hold in my hand a piece of paper." speech was just contrived nonsense concocted by the Conservative Party. What he really said was "I hold in my hand a Peruvian/Texel cross."  The said cavy then proceeded to pee in his hand. Mr Chamberlain then said "I will wipe my hand with a piece of paper." You see how propaganda works?

In 1966 Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt reportedly uttered the words "All the way with LBJ".
Allegedly he was referring to his willingness to get Australia bogged down in the ill-fated war in Vietnam. LBJ being of course the US President at the time - Lyndon B Johnson. This is complete rubbish. He said no such thing. He was merely extolling the virtues of a certain type of guinea pig feed. The one that his own Prime Ministerial guinea pigs favoured. What he really said was "All the way with timothy hay." Sadly the Liberal Party and the military twisted his words to suit their own agenda and very soon Australia's youth was being killed and maimed in a far flung South East Asian jungle. Poor old Harold. Eventually his obsession with guinea pigs became too embarrassing for the Liberal party to tolerate and they had him assassinated while swimming at Cheviot Beach near Melbourne. His body was never recovered, but there are rumours that he is alive and well and sharing a small bedsit in Beijing with Elvis Presley and thirty or forty guinea pigs. Apparently Elvis and Harold are never seen out together. This is because one of them always has to stay at home to make sure that the locals don't steal their guinea pigs to stir fry with a few spring onions, oyster sauce and cashew nuts.

William Wallace aka Mel Gibson had guinea pigs too, but his words were altered for dramatic effect by Hollywood in the movie "Braveheart" Personally if a drunken Scotsman with a blue face and a bare arse shouted "You can take my life, but you'll never take my guinea pig" at me I would be far more likely to take him seriously than had he said the words that Hollywood insisted that he uttered.

I'll leave the final quote to Bill Clinton. Bill really, really loves his guinea pigs. I mean really, really, really loves his guinea pigs. So much so in fact that he was forced to deny the extent of his affection.
"I did not have sexual relations with that guinea pig." He once said.

Boris' Bit
Mein favourite is Herr Kennedy's "Ich bin ein guinea pig" Mainly because it is ze only kvote ich versteh

Sunday, November 17, 2013


The other day I was sitting on my male staff's lap nonchalantly chewing on a slice of carrot while he was pretending to work on his computer. He wasn't working at all of course, he'd actually Googled "West Ham's Ten Greatest Goals" (West Ham being the soccer team he's supported since he was a snotty eight year old.) Sadly though You Tube had no such video because it turns out West Ham have yet to score ten goals since he started supporting them, so he had to settle for "West Ham's Ten Funniest Own Goals". For some reason he found that rather depressing and with great reluctance he decided that perhaps he might as well do some work after all.

With much grumbling - he sounds like Muttley from the cartoon Wacky Races when he grumbles by the way. Readers of a similar advanced age and decrepitude to my male staff will remember Muttley as the villain Dick Dastardly's dog who muttered things like "Rrrraten grrrratten fknnnn basrrrggg shitennn" every time their evil plans went awry, which of course was every episode. Anyway, that gives you an idea of what my male staff sounds like when he's in a bed mood. In other words he sounds like that most of the time.

So, my male staff tried to log in to one of the internet sites he uses for "work" - I think it was.
 "Rrrraten grrrratten fknnnn basrrrggg shitennn" I heard him say. I peered out from behind my carrot. There on the screen were the most dreaded words a computer user can ever see displayed in front of him.

"Sorry, your password has been in use for 30 days and has expired - you must register a new one."
"Hmmph!" Said my male staff and typed. "kitten"
"Sorry, the security of your new password is not strong enough."
 "Bollocks!" Said my male staff and typed. "cute kitten".
"Sorry, you must use at least one numerical character."
 "Shit!" Said my male staff and typed. "1 cute kitten".
"Sorry, you cannot use blank spaces."
 "Jesus Christ!" Said my male staff and typed "1cutekitten".
 "Sorry, you must use at least 10 different characters."

"Oh Dear!" Said my male staff and typed "1fuckingcutekitten".
 "Sorry, you must use at least one upper case character."
 "Golly!" Said my male staff and typed "1FUCKINGcutekitten".
 "Sorry, you cannot use more than one upper case character consecutively."
 "Gosh!" Said my male staff and typed  "1FuckingCuteKitten".

"Sorry, you must use no fewer than 20 characters."

 "Dash it all!" Said my male staff and after correcting several typos typed "1FuckingCuteKittenShovedUpYourArseIfYouDon'tGiveMeAccessRightFuckingNow."

"Sorry, you cannot use punctuation."

My male staff sighed and shed a quiet tear, then typed. "1FuckingCuteKittenShovedUpYourArseIfYouDontGiveMeAccessRightFuckingNow"

 "Sorry, that password is already in use."

Boris' Bit.

Now Herr Billy's staff are haffink to be buyink ein neue computer because der alt vun ist layink in wenig pieces on der grass unter der office vindow und der vogel are crappink all over it.














Sunday, November 10, 2013

The Ashes

The England cricket team is in Australia for something called "The Ashes". Being Peruvian I know as much about cricket as the Chinese know about forming orderly queues. It's going to be a long, hot summer filled with such terms as "silly mid-off", "fine leg", "short leg", "long on", "third slip", "bloody stupid wicket keeper" and "lousy bowler", though I think my male staff may have just made the last two up.

Those cricket fans who can't get to the games or a television will turn on their radios to listen to a commentary as languorous as a drowsing, daisy strewn summer meadow, delighting in the crack of leather upon willow and the occasional players' earnest appeal of "Owzaaaaaaaaat!" The backdrop to the radio commentary will be a blend of the low hum of the crowd, punctuated here and there by a smattering of polite applause, like a burst of distant fire crackers and every now and again a police, fire engine or ambulance siren as whatever vehicle it is racing past the stadium to some emergency in the whatever city the game is being played in. It could be that the emergency is that someone has dialled 000 because their television has packed up and they are missing out on the cricket. The radio listener will never know. All they hear is the siren fading into the distance as the commentator says something mysterious like, "Fine shot played there by Snivelling. He picked the new cherry up early and caressed it through the gap down to cow corner for a splendid boundary." While normal people are thinking "what?" sad cricket tragics like my male staff are lapping it up and (more worryingly) understanding and relishing every word.

 Then during one of the many quiet phases of the game the Australian spectators in the cheap seats who have guzzled enough beer commence the chant "Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi!" Some will be waving huge blow up kangaroos that look as though they may have been purchased from some sort of perverse adult shop, but of course the radio listeners will miss out on that. Meanwhile, the "Barmy Army" as the English team supporters are known seems to include a better class of drunk. Their chants are often aimed at opposing players and are in comparison exquisitely crafted pieces of poetry

Ooooh Aaaah Glenn McGrath,
Walks like a woman
And he wears a bra.

These folk are obviously university educated and to their credit you rarely hear a four letter word uttered by any of them, unless its "beer".

My male staff loves all this and will sit in front of the television with either myself, Boris or Baci on his lap for the entire game, and may I remind you that a cricket test match lasts five days. We have to nip the inside of his thigh to remind him that we are there and that we require food and water. It's as though he's hypnotised by the soft verdure of the outfield, the straw coloured oblong of the pitch and the white flannelled fools who chase the hard red ball around day after day after day. It's funny, but more often than not, even after five days of hot toil under a baking antipodean sun there is no result. The game ends in a draw. Everyone is happy and yet nobody is happy. The players go to the bar for the night, and the next morning they all board a flight to whichever city the next game is being held in.

Why is this series of cricket test matches between England and Australia called "The Ashes"? Most people in cricket playing nations can probably tell you. They may not know the name of their own capital city but almost anyone in England, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and the Indian sub-continent will be able to give you a more or less accurate answer.

The Ashes urn

In 1882 after Australia's first victory on English soil the British Newspaper The Sporting Times printed an obituary for English cricket, stating that English cricket has died and the body will be cremated and taken to Australia. Since then every time England and Australia take each other on at cricket they play for "The Ashes". It is a tiny urn about six inches tall said to contain the ashes of the bails that were burned following that historical English defeat. "What the hell are bails?" I hear my American friends cry. Apparently, according to my male staff they are the two little bits of wood that sit in the top of the stumps. "What are stumps?" I hear my American friends cry. Again, according to my male staff they are the three sticks stuck vertically into the ground at each end of the pitch. It is the job of the batsman to protect these sticks with his bat, head, testicles or anything else when the rock hard ball is pelted down the pitch at up to one hundred miles an hour by a mad-eyed gorilla in white masquerading as a human.

Currently England hold "The Ashes" but even when Australia win them they are kept in England at Lords - England's cricket head quarters, because the English don't trust the Australian's not to tip out the ashes and fill the historic urn with beer. This is probably wise given that David Boon, the legendary Australian batsman holds the record for the quantity of beer consumed on a flight from Sydney to London.

So, my male staff who pretends to work from home is looking forward to five games of Test cricket. That's twenty five of the next sixty days that one of us - Boris, Baci or myself will have to spend on my male staff's lap listening to someone on the television rapturously describing every indecipherable moment.

"That ball nipped back sharply off a good length and thundered into Snotworthy's pad just below the knee roll. He was absolutely plumb LBW. The umpire raises his finger and Snotworthy begins his long, lonely walk back to the sheds. Out for a golden duck."

Oh boy I can hardly wait.


Ich know nussing at all about cricket. Ven Herr Billy's male staff said zat he vants to spend der tag vatching der cricket I am sinking zat zere ist ein wenig jumpink insect in vich he has ein unhealsy interest. 

Sunday, November 3, 2013

A Dull Week

What do guinea pig bloggers write about when they've had a boring, hum-drum week? Well, some of us turn to the sporting world to perhaps report on how the Boston Red Sox won the World Series baseball this year. They might perhaps explore the reasons why after all these years the team management are still unable to spell the word Socks correctly. One would think that with all the money swilling around in professional baseball someone would have been able to afford a dictionary. Other cavies might mention the Melbourne Cup which is about to be run tomorrow- Australian time. For those of you who have been living under a rock it is a horse race - oddly enough, given it's name, it is run in Melbourne. It has been dubbed "The Race That Stops A Nations." My male staff calls is "The Race That Gives Everyone A chance To Get Totally Rat-Arsed And Have At Least One Day Off Work." I don't think he's a big fan of horse racing.

Other blogging guinea pigs like to turn to popular culture when their week has been a bit dull. They might even visit the appalling Nine MSN "News" website upon which the US spying debacle and the Syrian civil war and humanitarian crisis are relegated to obscure web pages that you have to spend hours trying to find, while promoting headlines like "Kim Kardashian's Vagina Better Than Ever." and "Bieber Drugs, Sex & Assault Shame." It turns out that all Kim had to do to improve her vagina was to have a baby. All I can say is that it must have been pretty bad before that. As for Justin, well, imagine what a naughty boy he'll be when he finally graduates from pre-school.

One thing I will never be accused of doing is commenting on politics when I've had a quiet week.For example, I would never say that our former government was absolutely justified in slapping a temporary ban on live animal exports from Australia to Indonesia when footage emerged of cattle suffering horrendous cruelty at that nations abattoirs. Far be it from me to say that although I feel sorry for Australian farmers who's livelihoods depend on this trade, this was not the first such incident and the government and peak farming bodies should be making more rigourous checks on who these animals are sold to and what goes on at the abattoirs, and if it can't be one hundred percent guaranteed that animals are respected and dealt with humanely, then the trade should cease and other markets sought. I would never say that. Neither would I say that Australia's current Minister for Agriculture Barnaby Joyce is a buffoon for saying that people should not over react to the latest animal cruelty outrage concerning live animal exports - sheep in Jordan in this case. Again, not the first example of this occurring in Jordan. Pakistan and Yemen were other recent offenders with animals from Australia. Some guinea pigs might even say that behind closed doors members of the Australian government are calling Indonesians, Jordanians and Pakistanis barbaric. Some guinea pigs might say that Australians are no better for continuing to sell live animals to these people.

Sheep from Australia were diverted from proper Jordanian abattoirs and sold to individuals to be brutally slaughtered in the street and in some cases in private homes. There is footage on the internet for those who feel strong enough to watch it. Unlike other blogging cavies I would never suggest that animals that are to be slaughtered for human food should at least receive dignity in death, if not gratitude for the food they provide. After all, who are humans to say that the life of any animal is not of equal value to their own. But then, as I say, I would not blog about such things.


Mein Gott im Himmel! Herr Billy haben ein grosse bee up his bottom passage today, and ich sink it might have been stinkink him. Ich hope zat somesink more interestink ist happenink next woche, or else ve vill alles haf to be listenink to anuzzer mad rant.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Camp Salmonella

Those of you who read last week's post will remember that my male staff, Boris, Baci and Paolo the budgie and I had foolishly been left to fend for ourselves by my female staff who had deserted us for five days while she went to a belly dance and drumming retreat somewhere in the Gold Coast hinterland. Well, she had such a dramatic, exciting time that she didn't seem to notice the fire brigade packing up their hoses outside our house when she returned. Mind you, it's really not that unusual for her to go away for a few days and return home to find the emergency services present.  It so happens that it was the fire brigade on this occasion because my male staff misread the instructions on his frozen TV dinner. It wasn't supposed to be heated in the microwave on high for three hours and thirty minutes. It should have been three minutes and thirty seconds. Anyway, it only took one hour for the Thai green curry and rice to explode and redecorate the kitchen and start a small fire in his hair which thankfully my male staff had the presence of mind to prevent from spreading to our hay by pouring his beer onto it - his hair, not our hay I'm please to say.

Other emergency services to become all too familiar with our house are the police, (When male staff saw an incredibly ugly prowler outside on the deck one night. It turned out to be his reflection in the window.) the ambulance service twice in one night, (When my male staff decided that he couldn't breath. It turns out he was sleeping face down on his pillow the first time, then two hours later he fell asleep while reading and almost suffocated under Colleen McCullough, an incident that might have scarred him mentally for life.) and on one occasion the army, though to be fair that wasn't really his fault. He'd picked up my female staff's spectacles instead of his own and mistook an armoured personnel carrier for his Hyundai Getz. It was the army's fault for parking next to the Getz and leaving the key in the ignition. Anyway, the officer who came and asked for his armoured personnel carrier back - Major Cockup I think his name was - was quite reasonable about the whole thing and forgave my male staff when he offered to let the entire battalion give me a cuddle and feed me basil.

Anyway, as it happens, the fire brigade were not the first emergency service my female staff had encountered on her trip. Two days into the retreat, other participants started to get sick, at least my female staff assumed they were getting sick. It could just have been that the girls couldn't stand the snoring in the dormitory and decided to spend the night laying on the floor in the communal toilet while now and again crawling to their knees to call for their friends Ralph and Huey down the big white telephone. In any case an ambulance turned up the next day and carted half a dozen people off to hospital. Then some folk from the health department arrived to inspect the kitchen and make certain recommendations.

1.   The chef should stop peeing in the sink.
2.   Cockroaches should not be added to the muesli unless there is a shortage of sultanas.
3.   The dishwasher should not be used to clean the resort manager's colostomy bag.
4.   Mould killer should not be sprayed on cheese that has passed its use by date.
5.   Kitchen staff should wash their hands properly after using the toilet,
      not merely wipe them on a tea towel.
6.   Kitchen knives should not be cleaned by spitting on them and wiping them on an apron.

As it happens none of these precautions were enough to prevent the ambulance being called a second time the next day. There were few male dances there, but the few that there were tended to be the macho body building, bicep kissing, reflection admiring, middle eastern type. Two of them had to do a dance routine which involved a stick fight. The dance teacher taught them the moves and told one of them he was to back down in submission at the end of the routine, but of course being the macho body building, bicep kissing, reflection admiring, middle eastern type that he was, he refused.
 "No! There's no way I'm backing down." He said pointing at his foe with his stick. "He can back down. I'm not, no way, forget it."
  "Look, it's just a dance." The teacher pointed out. "It's not a real fight." She turned to the other dancer. "Okay," she said. "Will you be the one to surrender?"
  "Me!" The other dancer was outraged and started waving his stick aggressively at the first. "You asked him to back down. I'm not backing down, not in front of all these women."
  "Don't wave your stick at me like that." Growled the first dancer.
  "I'll wave my stick at whoever I like." Said the second, stepping forward and poking the first dancer in the chest with his stick.

Ten minutes later both were bruised and bleeding from thwacking each other with their sticks and had been separated and held back by a dozen middle aged ladies in belly dancing outfits. The teacher called the ambulance and they were trundled off to hospital to join those who had departed earlier for the gastro ward. It was generally agreed that the fight routine was one of the best performances of the entire five days.

Boris' Bit

Ich bin ein champion Schnuggle pig und ich bin lookink forvard to beink schnuggled by ein entire battalion of ze Australian Army. Ich only hope zat Herr Billy does not keep alles der schnuggling soldiers for himself.


Sunday, October 20, 2013

Boy Racer

It is most entertaining to sit on one of my staffs' laps and watch the antics of my new housemates Boris and Baci. Like most rodents they like to run close to walls. I must say that I have never really understood this, but then of course I am not "most rodents". I run where I damned well like, straight across the middle of the room, over rugs or tiles, it really doesn't matter to me. I also do something that neither Boris nor Baci would dream of doing. I stand on my hind legs on my staffs' enormous feet and rest my forepaws on their shins. They find this particularly endearing and if I add a pleading look with my liquid brown eyes it often elicits a treat of some sort. Of course if they don't happen to have a treat on their person at the time, I have to endure a rather precarious and bumpy ride on their foot as far as the fridge while they walk lopsidedly like Quasimodo to the kitchen. Then with the treat safely in my mouth I hop off and run straight across the middle of the room back to my blanket upon which I can safely consume my treat.

On the other hand, while Boris and Baci are obviously keen to explore, they confine their adventures to the perimeter, never venturing into the centre of the room at all. Can you imagine what the world would be like if early human explorers had done the same thing? In Australia there'd be no Mount Isa, no Alice Springs. In the USA there'd be no Detroit and no Las Vegas. Africa would be without Nairobi and Johannesburg, while in Britain there'd be no Leicester or Luton. Come to think of it, maybe just exploring the periphery is not such a bad thing after all. Anyway, I was just saying how much fun it is to watch Boris and Baci run around the walls of our lounge room. Boris always leads and chuffs along at his own speed, like my male staff in his car - almost always observing the speed limit, (If not actually the road.) while Baci follows close behind - half an inch from Boris' backside like an impatient boy racer stuck behind my male staff's car on a one track lane. The problem is that now and again Boris likes to stop and sniff, and he does this with no warning, meaning that Baci crashes into him every time. He glares at Boris but does not overtake. He simply waits for Boris to move on and then repeats the same mistake time and time again.  Like most boy racers, he's not terribly bright.

My female staff has been away since Wednesday at a belly dance retreat. Apparently someone is teaching her news ways to move her belly. My male staff finds new ways to move his belly every day without having to spend a week away. She comes back later today and I think the whole five days will have been a bit of a shock for her. Firstly, she is having to sleep in a dormitory - in a sleeping bag - without room service - without an en-suite bathroom. This is a woman who thinks that staying in a three star hotel is like camping. Secondly, she may have trouble persuading her roommates to get up and make scrambled eggs with Parmesan cheese for breakfast for her to eat sitting up in bed with a good book and a cup of tea.

Meanwhile, we five boys have been left in charge of the house - never the ideal situation at the best of times. It's been fun. My male staff has never spent five days wearing only his underpants before, and we three guinea pigs can deposit bush chocolate wherever we like with virtual impunity. It has to be said though that my male staff has got his work cut out for him when he tries to find it all before my female staff gets home, especially the ones I left in her favourite coffee mug. We'll probably get away with it all unless Paolo the budgie squeals. He sits there on his perch peering through the bars of his cage with an oh so superior look on his blue face. I expect he'll try to blackmail my male staff, threatening to tell my female staff what we've been up to unless his millet ration is doubled.
 "Squawk! Poop in the mug. Poop in the mug. Squawk!"


Guten tag. Zis ist now mein vierte "Boris' Bit" and ich sink you vill agree zat mein Englisch is coming gooder und gooder each time, nein? Ich bin learnink all ze time useful new vords und phrases like "busch chocolate" und "vheek". Anyvay it ist true vat Herr Billy says. Herr Baci is alvays doink der runnink sehr close behind me, und vhen ich halt ich bin gettink ein wenig brown, sharp, nose up mein bottom passage. Sometimes it is gettink stuck zere und Herr Billy's staff haf to pick us both up und remove Herr Baci's nose from mein bottom passage. Ven zis happens it comes heraus mit der poppink sound like ein bottle of champagne. Zis ich bin not mindink, but ich do object to Herr Billy's staff yellink "Cheers!" und proposing ein toast every time.

Monday, October 14, 2013

The Naked Macarana

This has been an entertaining week.  A while ago my male staff was advised by his doctor to change his anti-depression medication. It had become less effective over time and he was having more frequent depressive episodes. It was however decided that it would be better to wait until he returned from escorting his safari group through Kenya and Tanzania because if the new medication didn't work he might frighten the animals, or depress the wildebeests so much that they'd simply throw themselves at the lions, yelling "Please eat me. Anything, just don't make me spend another second with this strange virtually hairless, pale, depressed primate."

So, as soon as he returned he went to the doctor and declared himself ready to try the new loony pills as he likes to call them. This involved gradually cutting back on his current medication and then starting on the new stuff. All went well for the first week and a half of cutting back and then it started. Boris, Baci and I could tell that all was not how it should be when on a Tuesday evening not long after taking his first new loony pill my male staff stood up from his armchair and staggered about  as though it was a Saturday night and he'd just consumed his customary bottle and a half of chardonnay. He was slurring his words in a Saturday night-esq mannner too. My female staff asked if he was okay, to which he replied.
  "Sure, aahhmmm fahhhn. Jusssshhhht uh little dishy thatssshhh awwwl." He sounded like John Wayne and I didn't think he was at all "dishy".  He staggered off to bed, bouncing of the wall as he went like one of those silver balls in a pinball machine.

By the morning, most of his "dishyness" had passed and he'd stopped slurring his words. He made my female staff breakfast as usual and then set to work on his computer in the office. After an hour or so it became plain that all was not well. The swearing coming from the office was much louder, more frequent and much more profane, heartfelt and bitter than usual. I can tell you that both Boris and little Baci learned some good old English words that morning. Words that they would be better off not knowing, especially one of Baci's tender age. Almost every word began with either the letter F or the letter C and were repeated loudly and often. It was as if Ozzy Osbourne had been given a guest appearance on Sesame Street. At one stage it actually became worse than when my female staff practices on the piano, that's how bad it was. I've become accustomed to new lyrics and notes being added to traditional tunes as my female staff hits the wrong key. "All BOLLOCKS! bright and beautiful, all creatures great and SHIT!" or "Onward Christian BASTARD! Marching as to F@#k!"

It all came to a head on Thursday morning. My female staff had a day off, so she and my male staff slept in for a while and had breakfast in bed. (After feeding myself, Boris, Baci and Paolo the budgie of course.) Then they relaxed and read their books for a while. My female staff moved and jogged my male staff's book and he lost his page. It was as though an utter disaster had just occurred that threatened to ruin his life. With a cry of  "Oh well, it was a stupid book anyway." (Probably true, it was a Dan Brown novel after all.) he threw it across the room and buried himself in the blanket and kept repeating the words "I don't want to be here." This appeared to alarm my female staff because she came and scooped us out of our cages. She then returned to the bedroom with her arms full of guinea pig cuteness and thrust us all under the blanket where my male staff was hiding, curled up in a foetal position in a vain attempt at attaining oblivion. Instinctively we all knew what to do. Boris made straight for the back of my male staff's right knee, I went for his right nipple and Baci, being the least experienced biter of the three of us went for the end of his most tender bit. We all sank our teeth in simultaneously and my male staff leapt from the bed howling. Looking back the this incident I can only marvel at the gallant effort my male staff made at trying to stem the blood from three wounds with only two hands. Not surprisingly the wound inflicted by Baci received most of his attention, but his hand still flew rapidly between the back of his knee and his nipple too. If you've never seen a naked middle aged man doing a demonic version of the Macarana you haven't truly lived.
  "Well," said my female staff. "you said you didn't want to be there. Well, now you're not."

I'm am pleased to report that my male staff has since changed to another different drug and is doing quite well, except that when he pees, it spouts out from all the Baci inflicted holes like a watering can and it takes him half an hour to mop the floor of the toilet. Now he's complaining of a stiff back from all the mopping. Never mind. The doctors says the extra holes will soon heal and that will mean his back will get better too.

Boris' Bit

Guten Tag vunce again everybody. Ich haben been sinking lately zat it vas not such ein gut idea to come and live vis dis crazy volk. I sink Baci Und Ich vould haf been better off stayink put at ze rescue centre und being rescued by somebody else. Even if it took zwei or drei jahre.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Waiter! My Cake Has A Postcode

I bet you're are sitting in front of your desk top, lap top, tablet, iPhone, crystal ball, Ouija board, tea leaves, or whatever other device you use to commune with the outside world, wondering where this week's blog post has got to. Well, here it is, a day late I know, but better late than never, and I do have a very good excuse. You see, yesterday four humans decided to take a leap of faith and get together for a long, boozy, public holiday Monday lunch at our house. Many of my regular readers will already know the two lady humans responsible for the @Whatdoingdugal and @clingycat Twitter accounts. Well, they indicated to my staff that they would be in our area and would like my staff to pass on the message to yours truly that they would like to get together. I suggested to my staff that they should invite them to lunch, which they did, and guess what. Neither of them were axe murderers, despite one of them coming from Adelaide. They were two very nice ladies who arrived with a car load of cats to whom the Twitter accounts belong. 

There was Dugal, Wicket, McGonagall, Jazz and Captain Wormsparrow. Seeing all these cats pouring out of their staff's car one by one I began to worry about the safety of poor little Baci - our baby guinea pig who's diminutive size and large ears make him a dead ringer for a mouse, apart from his obviously tailless butt, but I don't think cats would notice that small, but important difference. I shouldn't have worried though because the cats behaved with great decorum and anyway, my staff always wanted to have curtains with that freshly shredded look. The lady from Adelaide said that it is the very latest fashion in all the best houses in Adelaide and everyone knows what a progressive city Adelaide is.

So, while the cats chased Baci up a tree (If you've ever watched five cats chase a guinea pig up a tree, and lets face it, who hasn't, you'll know what was an entertaining sight that can be.), my staff, the cats' staff, Boris and I sat down to a sumptuous lunch of quiche (whatever that is), salad and a cake so big that it had it's own post code. Zip code if you are an American. Believe me there is nothing zippy about Australia Post. Finally I slurped up the last bit of lettuce and emitted a soft, gentlemanly burp. Lunch was over and it was time to see how Baci and the pussy cats were getting along. Very well as it happens. Baci had made his way to the very thinnest twig of our big paperbark tree . The five cats obviously thought that he would be most comfortable there, not to mention safe from predators. Dugal and Wicket were on the nearest branch that would hold their weight. They said they were making sure nothing could get Baci while he slept on his twig and Jazz, McGonagall and Captain Wormsparrow were on the ground looking up at him "in case he slipped" as they explained.

My staff "sprang" into action. I use the word "sprang" reluctantly because my staff don't rally spring as such. More sort of...... ooze, if you know what I mean. Anyway, you get my drift - they were anxious to help. My staff oozed into the bedroom and oozed out again carrying a bed sheet. The four humans carried it into the garden and held it spread out, one human at each corner - all yelling at Baci to jump into it. But Baci being only eight weeks old does not yet understand the weird noises that humans like to call English and so he stayed put. Dugal's human suggested that my male staff should throw me up to Baci's level so that I could explain the situation to him. I gave her my best glare and vowed to pee on her the very first chance I got. In the end, as luck would have it Baci yawned and stretched and fell off of his twig, landing neatly in the centre of the bed sheet along with a surprisingly large amount of bush chocolate for such a small animal. Obviously the fall frightened him. So that just left Dugal and Wicket and neither of them had the slightest intention of jumping into a bed sheet held by humans, and lets face it, who can blame them. Two hours later the humans were still there, hoarsely calling "Here kitty kitty, jump down now. It'll be dark soon." Dugal and Wicket just stared balefully at us all and refused to budge. Finally my female staff said she'd call the fire brigade. This she did, and within half an hour a fire engine turned up and spewed out half a dozen hunky fireman which made the human ladies go all girly and swoony while my male staff tried to suck in his stomach and almost gave himself a hernia. In less than ten minutes the fireman had the cats out of the tree and were on their way to accident and emergency to have their wounds treated.

The sun was setting behind the paperbark tree as the cats and their humans crammed themselves into their car and drove off into the dusk. I turned to my pal Boris and smiled. "Wow! What a great day," I said. "We must do it again sometime."
 "Ja." Said Boris. "Ich bin vollkommen einverstanden."
Jeez! I hope his English starts to improves soon.

Now then. There is not a single guinea pig on earth who is not concerned by the shut down of the government of the United States of America. If you think there is I bet if you look a little closer you'll find it's a beaver or a mongoose or something less sensible. Now I'm not saying that this IS what has happened. All I'm saying that this is how things appear to be from beyond the borders of the good ol' USA, and I'm sure if this is not correct someone out there will tell me.

Barak Obama spruiked "ObamaCare" before the last election.

Barak Obama is fairly comprehensively re-elected by the majority of Americans - or at least those who could be bothered to vote.

The Democrats proceed with "ObamaCare" and it passes into law.

The Tea Party influenced Republicans spit their dummies because they can't stand the thought of Mr and Mrs Average being able to get good quality medical treatment, saying that the nation can't afford it. Yet I'm willing to bet that most of those nice Tea Party folk would be only to happy to spend trillions of greenbacks bombing Syria or any other nation who have the temerity to actually use the chemical weapons that the USA sold them, back to the stone age.

Now, in most democracies here's what would happen. The Republicans would concede that the electorate voted for ObamaCare or Folk-I-Don't-Agree-With-Care or whatever you like to call it and not have a hissy fit which threatens the American economy - and the rest of the World's come to that.

They would go to the next election with a promise to repeal the ObamaCare legislation and then follow through with that pledge if they are elected.

Then if the Democrats threaten to block that legislation they can point to the fact that they went to the election with a pledge to repeal ObamaCare and therefore have a mandate to do so. That is democracy isn't it? Maybe not. Please tell me.

Boris' Bit
Ich bin sehr grateful zat most of Billy's readers said zat zey could understand mein last scribblinks.  Ich bin trying very hard to improve mein Englisch, but ven ze only vuns you haf to practice on are ein acht wochen old baby und ein hairy lump of lard it is sehr difficult.


Sunday, September 29, 2013

Heroes & Terrorists

What a complicated world you humans have created for yourselves. I have no doubt at all that Al Shabab consider themselves heroes of whatever misguided cause they follow for planning and carrying out their attack on the Westgate Shopping mall in Nairobi. I'm sure they think it was courageous to spray innocent men, women and children with bullets and to toss the occasional hand grenade about indiscriminately. If they had decided to attack the mall a month earlier, my staff, my female staff's mum and several others in their safari group may well have been caught up in the slaughter.

The trouble is that the old saying - "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter" still holds true and recent history holds plenty of examples of "terrorists" who have gained respectability and power through the ballot box. Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness brought to you by the nice people of Sinn Fein and the even nicer Irish Republican Army for example. Menachem Begin, the sixth Prime Minister of Isreal was also regarding as a terrorist. Then there's East Timor's first President - Xanana Gusmao. He was probably Indonesia's most wanted "terrorist" for years. Hells Bells! Even Nelson Mandela was (and still is by many white South Africans) regarded as a terrorist.

All of the above mentioned "terrorists" had one thing in common though. They were fighting against real or perceived persecution of the majority by the powerful minority. Not that that excuses the murder of innocents. (Isn't that right Mr McGuinness?) However, loose organisations like Al Shabab and Boko Haram in Nigeria cannot even claim that small legitimacy. Now this latter group has murdered dozens of students as they slept in their dormitory at the Yobe College of Agriculture. If anything, shooting sleeping people is even more courageous than shooting wide awake women and children in a shopping mall. What twisted logic persuades these idiots to believe that this is furthering their cause? (Loosely translated Boko Haram means "Western Education is Forbidden".)

At the start of this raving, rambling, rodent diatribe I opined that you humans have created a complicated world, but you might think that it is quite simple. It is wrong to murder innocent people in pursuit of a cause that has nothing to do with those whom you are murdering. You would of course be correct. However, you humans (including my staff) who live in the "civilised West" continue to vote for governments who perpetuate feelings of frustration, resentment and worse amongst the young, foolish and gullible who live under corrupt, despotic regimes propped up by rich Western nations because they need oil or some strategic advantage. Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Bahrain, Fiji, Kuwait, Nigeria, and even Turkey to a certain extent. Meanwhile we give the cold shoulder to places like Iran and Cuba who are certainly no worse than any of the above mentioned.  Let's face it, it's no wonder the USA and her allies were convinced that Saddam Hussein had chemical weapons stashed all over Iraq because they had been supplying him with them for years. So, what's the answer? That really is simple. At your next general election vote for your local Guinea Pig Party candidate. We may not know much about politics, but when's the last time you heard of a guinea pig causing innocent deaths? (Unless you count that time in Peru when one of the locals fed roasted guinea pigs that had been left too long in the sun to a wedding party.)

Now, then. Let me introduce you to Boris. Many of you will know him as one of my new neighbours along with his little nephew Baci. Boris has quite a strong German accent due to the fact that he mostly ate sauerkraut at his last home. He say's he wants to contribute to my blog, so to be friendly I thought I'd give him a chance. I hope you can understand what he's saying. (Apologies to my German readers)

Guten tag everybody. First ich vould like to sank Herr Billy for givink me ze opportunity to put in meine zwei cents vorth at ze end of his blog. Ich am avare that ich haben grosse shoes to fill if meine footnote ist to become anyvhere near as popular as der late, great Badger's. Still ich must try, und so it ist meine grosse pleasure to remind Herr Billy zat meine own beloved Germany has been selling dodgy chemicals to zat Scheiße-kopf Bashar Al Assad for years. Auf wiedersehen.